


Homespun

by gogollescent



Category: Black Sails
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-22
Updated: 2017-08-22
Packaged: 2018-12-18 11:53:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11873814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gogollescent/pseuds/gogollescent
Summary: “Goodness, no. I think I ate your heart.”





	Homespun

James had never looked out of place in their drawing room; in fact he tended to fade into the wallpaper, like a very handsome ficus. It amazed her that he could do the same in a sunny little hut, black coat powdered over with radiant dust, great boots no blacker than the cats, and about that size—the shine on his hair like split timber. His skin all worn to nothing. Colorless with a bright outline, just to match her pretty home, and its host of ornaments: the bones still on the platter. Corn drying on a string. And he sat slumped in the wicker chair in evident discomfort, which he must have learned to withstand as a child; the same as when he sat rod-straight in carriages, or, weeping, on her husband’s bed, his head to Tom’s bare shoulder. Ah, that was it—he sat as if the earth would move. 

“My dear,” she said, doing as she liked, and kissing the top of his head. He gave a start and drew her down and, dutiful, kissed her, and could only be parted from her with sighs. He was like a man always awaking and slipping into dreams; willing and obedient, but unable to stay. But how hard to untangle his fingers from her arm! He looked at her smoulderingly; she had a coughing fit. 

 _Aha—aha—aha—aha_ —efficient as ever, he left his seat and maneuvered her into it. “Lady Hamilton,” he said, getting to his knees—he had remembered to lie, but not which lie—then, “Miranda,” so she patted his arm for encouragement.

It was early in the day. “I’m sorry,” she said, planting her feet far apart, resting her elbows on the arms of the chair, steepling her fingers, like a man. “Let’s strategize. Would you like a kiss? Shall I kiss you?”

Flint gave her an uncertain smile, grave and lopsided. “Actually I came here to talk propaganda. But now you’ve gotten me excited.” She kicked out idly and toed his inseam; he spoke truth. 

“Where did you find leather pants? Never mind. Go on, Captain.”

“It’s the men. We need a story—” A deep breath. “They need a story about why I come here.” 

“How will you disseminate it to them?”

“Get blind drunk and tell them it didn’t happen.”

“Ah, foolproof.” He might have been joking—he talked about his crew like they were children—but, she supposed, it was just possible politicians were politicians for a reason, and she had forgotten how it was with other men. Possibly, at the end of it, she had forgotten how it was with politicians. “So what is the story? What do you have in mind?”

“Well, I’m open to suggestions.” He sat back on his heels, pants creaking—her slipper slid from his crotch—and he crossed his arms and grimaced, eyes twinkling above a sour pucker. Of course he had twinkled incessantly in London; but like his violence, he seemed to think he had made it up for Captain Flint, and therefore should deploy it everywhere, and she’d applaud him for his cunning deception. From all he said of Captain Flint, she would have thought her husband had invented James McGraw. “But I had in mind a witch who gave me immortality.”

“How?”

“Some sort of potion?”

“Oh, is that what it takes?” He tucked his arms tighter. She resisted the urge to smack his chest and see if he’d tip over. “Goodness, no. I think I ate your heart.”

“You _ate_ —”

“It has a mythic flair.”

“But I’m supposed to say, in cups, ‘she didn’t _eat_ my _heart_ —’”

“James, were you seriously—”

“Because, you know, some denials they’ll take for lies, but if there’s a more obvious organ—”

She had to stop him. She would laugh, and they’d have to begin again, and he would see her grieving: the weakness in her knees, the loss of footing, that he noticed before she did, and took half-measures against. Of course he saw it every day, and she found herself living behind it as a palisade, a poor defense. As she had not supposed she would, when they came here: on the trade ship, never speaking, they had always told the truth. “James. I believe in you. More importantly, I believe in _me_. This will help. And it’s a small price to pay, isn’t it? Your heart?”

“It is today,” he said, chin raised. “It is this morning.” He was cold, growing ardent; if she turned her head too far, she would forget he was still there.


End file.
